And I Will Wait
by portmanelena
Summary: Sherlock struggles to hide the truth and John realises too late that sometimes there is nothing you can do. Sometimes we are faced with a choice in which no matter what we do, the means never justify the ends. (Warnings for drug use, language, dark themes)
1. These Violent Delights have Violent Ends

_Thanks to Catie501 whose wonderful ideas and kind words were the inspiration for this story :)_

* * *

**And I Will Wait**

If you'd asked me a year ago if I believed in karma I probably would have laughed.

But maybe I've changed my mind, maybe I believe now.

Karma comes after everyone eventually. Sooner or later we all get what we deserve and perhaps this was it.

The consequence of my betrayal.

* * *

The bottom line is you never see the big moments coming, and even if you do theres no way to prepare yourself. Its not like you can just sit back in your chair and say 'Yep, I'm ready for my life to change now, thanks' because that's bullshit, no ones ready, not really. You just kind of have to meet it when it comes. It doesn't make it any easier thats for sure, but theres no other way.

And the truth is, I was scared. I was scared that if I threw open the door to Baker St and marched up the stairs that I would be too much of a coward to say what I needed to say. To say sorry.

Because I was sorry, Jesus I'd never been so sorry in my life. But what if it wasn't enough? What if I looked up at your eyes and saw disappointment; hurt?

I couldn't deal with that, I kind of hoped you might shout at me, tell me what a bastard I was, maybe take a swing or two.

Then perhaps things could be OK, I would be OK with that, I mean its not like I didn't deserve it. But I knew it wouldn't be like that. You know that old saying 'Sticks and stones can break my bones but words will never hurt', well maybe its right, because I could handle words, I was ready for whatever you could throw at me, but I was afraid you wouldn't say anything, that maybe you wouldn't need to because it would be written all over your face. And somehow that was a thousand times worse.

So here I was, outside the door, ready for battle and armed only with my guilt and the word sorry.

I don't know what else there is to say, why is it we only have that one word, the same word we use for everything? Sorry I'm late, sorry I forgot my wallet, sorry I ran your cat over.

Sorry I betrayed you in the only way which mattered.

Sorry.

I didn't even know how we had ended up like this, how things had got so fucked up.

I guess they were heading here from the beginning, I mean we had been living together for years, solving crimes, annoying Anderson, probably giving Lestrade more grey hairs than he deserved, but Christ it was fun wasn't it? Its like we were acting out the kind of lives you dream of when you're kids, the life of danger, mystery and adventure. The dreams you have before you realise that certain things are impossible, that fairytales don't play out in real life.

But somehow we had got lucky, things had never been better. Its such a cliche thing to say isn't it? _Things had never been better_, its pretty much like saying all the other times you've been happy were actually pretty shit. Whose to say this moment won't end up exactly the same tomorrow or next week when you decide something else is the best thing ever. What is it about our need to compare every single thing, is it some sort of competition? Maybe. But if it is, does that inspire us to make our lives better each day or set us up for failure, remind us of all the things we used to have which are gone now?

I'm not saying you didn't annoy the hell out of me most of the time, because you did. You can be so pretentious , I think its mostly that look of superiority you get on your face when you solve the puzzle. Most people just look at you in awe, I usually just want to punch you in the face…and maybe look a little in awe as well, but mostly the punching. I know I'm not a detective genius with an overly elaborate mind palace, but seriously, do you think I don't notice when you use the toaster for grilling animal body parts or that you replaced the relish Sarah gave me for Christmas with that toxic smelling goop you had bubbling on the the stove for a week?

If Mrs Hudson ever sees what that did to the wallpaper behind the stove we'll be living on the street I guarantee it.

And so that's how things were, we went to crime scenes, you annoyed everyone, solved the puzzle, we went home, I shouted for a bit about something you'd done, you pretended not to hear, then we got Chinese and laughed about the time Anderson got head-butted by a goat when we were investigating the farm murders.

Then came that stormy Sunday evening. We had spent the day wading along the shores of the Thames and it had been bloody freezing. I was wearing three jumpers and drinking my weight in scalding tea while you lay on the couch in your blue dressing gown and complained that the murderer had been far too obvious. And I was staring at you, your long legs curled up beneath you, hair still damp from the shower, dripping down your neck and soaking the top of your thin shirt.

I think that was the moment I realised that I was in way too deep, that some how I, John Watson, was in love with Sherlock Holmes. To be honest the thought scared the hell out of me and I sat there for ages trying to convince myself otherwise, maybe this was all a side effect of the cold, maybe I was imagining it, but then I realised that none of the symptoms of hypothermia included sudden feelings towards your decidedly not female flatmate.

Well shit.

My internal monologue of 'Don't be an idiot, he's your best friend, you're going to ruin everything, get your shit together John' was interrupted by you saying my name. I guess I had missed a comment that demanded a response so I took a shot in the dark and just nodded "Yep." Sometimes that works and you can get away with a lapse in concentration, I'm sure I gone whole conversations without actually listening an just interjecting a few nods and 'yeahs' into the gaps.

But this time you frowned.

"You weren't even listening were you?"

"Sorry"

You sighed dramatically as if I had missed out on something of great importance "You probably wouldn't have understood anyway"

Probably? Wow, that was almost a compliment.

I realised I was staring again and decided to excuse myself for bed, you just shrugged and went back to texting.

And that was that.

It wasn't like my internal revelation of love was a tiny drop of water that I could sort of blink away and then carry on, I had jumped right into the entire bloody pool and now I just had to deal with it.

When you decide you love someone but know you cant have them then suddenly everything they do is like they're taunting you, reminding you what you can't have. Were your eyes always that colour, your shirts that tight, your jawline so perfect, your voice so enticing?

I could feel you watching me sometimes, trying to figure out what was wrong. My only solution had been to try and distance myself from you, I went on fewer cases, I spent more time at the hospital and less time with you. I knew you were worried, that you didn't understand and I also knew what I was doing was unfair, but what else could I do?

However silences don't protect you. For every word unspoken the underlying truths fall further away and my absence had made things worse not better. I was being selfish, I didn't stop to think how this looked to you, maybe I didn't care, I was too caught up in feeling sorry for myself.

Besides this selfishness was just the beginning, the tip of the iceberg, in hindsight it wasn't that bad was it? Not in comparison to what would come later.

Then there was the day I came home from the hospital late, I had been sleeping there lots, picking up extra shifts, coming and going at Baker Street when I knew you would be out. But you were home this time, standing at the window, violin in hand, but not playing. Just standing there, staring out at the dark sky and quiet street below us. I dumped my bag on the ground and headed straight for the fridge. Empty. What a surprise and suddenly I was angry, irrationally, unexpectedly.

It was everything, I missed being here, I missed being with you, I missed how things had been before I decided to ruin it all. In that moment I wished we had never met, then this would never have happened, I would never have to be constantly around the one thing I wanted, but the one thing I couldn't have.

"You know it wouldn't kill you to pick up some groceries"

You looked around surprised, surprised that I had spoken to you.

Christ, had I really been gone that much?

You lowered the violin onto the seat and just kind of looked at me, still trying to deduce me, trying to figure me out. I was glad that I was one of the few people who still seemed a bit of a mystery to you. I slammed the fridge door shut aggressively "Just one trip to the bloody shops Sherlock, I'm sick of doing everything"

I wasn't really, I didn't mind, we worked well like that together, we had a kind of rhythm, a routine that just worked.

Your face darkened, you weren't deducing me anymore, maybe you had figured it out, or maybe you had given up, who could blame you. "Why don't you just go then?" you said quietly.

I glared up at you "That's exactly what I mean Sherlock, I shouldn't have to all the time, you're not a child you know, you _are_ capable of buying a loaf of bread"

"I don't mean the supermarket John"

I didn't like how you said my name, it was cold somehow, detached "I mean leave here, Baker Street"

Now I was confused "What the hell does that mean?"

Were you asking me to leave? Didn't you know how much I wanted that, to walk away from you and this life, to try and forget how I felt. I wanted to stride out the door and be able to never look back, but the very thought caused me physical pain, I needed you, the world would be a mightily bleak place without you by my side.

"You clearly don't want to live here anymore. Whatever I've done to make you dislike me, its written all over your face. Don't bother trying to spare my feelings if that's why you're still here. You know it doesn't matter to me in the slightest whether you stay or go"

You said the words without a blink of emotion except distain. There was no underlying plea in your words for me to stay, no flicker of hurt in your eyes. I almost believed the words, almost.

But then I knew you better than anyone else in all the world. I knew how much it would have cost you to say those words in the unfeeling way you delivered them, each syllable like a knife stabbing into my skin. And I knew what I had done, that I had done this to us, my fear of rejection, my selfishness of needing to be near you but simultaneously pushing you away in every way I could. I had almost ruined everything.

"That's not what I want" of course it wasn't, how could it be, did you even know what you had done for me, you had saved me. When I came back from Afghanistan I had seriously considered putting my gun in my mouth. It was only bringing closer the inevitable, we all die, why drag it out unnecessarily?

But then you had arrived in my world and brought life back to me.

"Then what?" you asked and there it was, for an instant the real Sherlock appeared beneath the cold, genius exterior façade. You were confused, for once you didn't know what has happening next and it unsettled you.

It unsettled me that I had done this.

And before I knew it, before I could even think about it I had crossed the gap between us in a few strides, grabbed your shoulders so we were face to face and I could answer the question you hadn't meant to ask. "You Sherlock" and then I crushed my lips against yours. God, this was like the terrible cliché moment at the end of a badly written chick-flick where the guy realises he's been an asshole and does something dramatic to win the girl which inevitably causes a simultaneous 'awww' from every woman in the cinema who then wonder why their spouse seems so lousy in comparison.

Except there wasn't a lot of romance. There was no slow motion running towards each other, no stupid sad song in the background or sweeping camera angles of the convenient sunset.

There was you standing stiffly, shocked, disgusted, angry, I didn't know.

And me, claiming full bonus points, 10 out of 10 for how to fuck up friendships and ruin everything that mattered. I was _the master,_ maybe I should write a 'How To' book, hold conferences, create a following of people similarly dedicated to doing the least appropriate thing in the circumstances.

I dropped my arms to my side and stepped back, despite the fact I had kind of just attacked you, the fact that my lips had actually touched yours made me ridiculously light headed. Your face was blank as if you were processing, loading the response like a computer programme. I thought about turning and running, but I needed to hear your rejection, I needed the pain, the conclusion to all of this. But most of all I needed to hear something that I could torture myself with, replay over and over in my mind while I wallowed in self pity and regret.

"John?"

I gulped, Ok here it was, prepare yourself, you can do this John. Your eyes were strange, unreadable. And then somehow we were face to face again except this time you were kissing me and this time it was right. Your lips were soft, curious, cautious, they explored mine gently. I felt for a second like I should pull away and make sure this was actually happening, then explain everything and try and redeem my weeks of avoiding you and in general being a total twat. But as I said, that thought was only there for a second, or maybe half a second, or maybe less, lets be honest here. My mouth opened under yours and I traced the perfect outline of your soft lips with my tongue, before dipping it inside your mouth.

I had dreamt about this (more times than I will admit to in order to retain at least a shred of dignity), but this was a million times better. I had never felt anything like this before, it was if a fire had ignited within me, a tingling warmth which spread to my toes. My hands were in your hair, those soft unruly curls, I clung to them, pulling your face closer to mine. I pushed you backwards, clumsily, stumbling until you were against the wall and I could press my body against yours, I needed to be closer, we were fused together, your hands on the side of my face trailing down my neck wrapping around my shoulders, pulling me in tighter. I gasped, my heart pounding wildly as we broke apart. Your pale skin was flushed, your light eyes bright and we looked at each other for a moment.

Then there was nothing to do but laugh, laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, of what had just happened, of how it had taken us this long to arrive here. I have never felt relief so great than at that point, where I knew that we were OK, you and me. That things could go back to normal now, different perhaps, but in a way I could cope with, in a way that would not cause the very foundation of my world to crumble beneath me.

And so all was well.

Until it wasn't.


	2. So We'll Go no More

So here we were nearly a year later. This is not a fairy tale, I will not insult you by pretending our days passed in perfect harmony- there is no such thing.

But there is such a thing as being happy. Our relationship, or whatever one chose to call it, was far from conventional but it didn't matter to me, you were hardly a conventional person, anything else would have been wrong. To the rest of the world nothing had changed, to Lestrade and Mycroft and Mrs Hudson, everything was the same. But between us it was different, if we had been friends before, we were companions now, perhaps that's not the right word, but then again maybe there isn't one. Not for what we had, but why are we so obsessed with labelling things anyway? It doesn't change anything, you can call a mountain a tree but its still a mountain at the end of the day isn't it, and it couldn't give a flying shit that you had tried to say otherwise.

But something was wrong, I hadn't quite realised it, not yet.

Maybe I didn't want to.

I was scared. To lose everything is a great hazard of life, and sometimes it happens very quickly and quietly, as if it were nothing at all. There will come a moment, a sliver of time in which things are perfect, the kind of day when you close your eyes to soak up the suns heat, when you smile on the bus for no reason, when the sound of wind through the leaves rustles like music. Its no surprise you'll want to stay in that moment, the peace and quiet is a welcome respite from the noise and fury of normal life.

But this desire blinds us, there is a part of us, dark, pessimistic but nevertheless realistic which knows life is not like this, that such moments can, if anything, only be the calm before the storm, the breath before the plunge, the peace before the war. Life is not a merciful entity, he does not arrive on our doorstep and see us with eyes shut tight and fingers in your ears, he does not see our reluctance at his arrival, he doesn't hop back down the steps and leave thinking 'I'll come back at a better time.' I don't think I need to tell you thats not how it works, Life has no qualms about intruding wherever he pleases and so I can only warn you that ignoring things is dangerous, sooner or later they'll pass a point and suddenly there is nothing you can do, its too late.

And by the time I noticed, you were in deep, and I didn't know how to pull you out. Maybe because I didn't try- not really, not hard enough. You had been distant, not all the time, irregularly, for short periods. This wasn't unusual, not really and so I left it. There were unsolved cases playing on your mind, Mycroft had been in more contact than usual and you were bored. The combination wasn't great, you were restless, irritable but this was not unusual.

It wasn't.

Was it?

When I look back I wonder if there were signs I missed, don't I know you better than anyone else in the world? Don't I know you as well as I know myself? I tell myself it wasn't my fault, that if the great Sherlock Holmes was hiding something then I could not expect to discover it alone.

I thought this would make me feel better, the lies we tell ourselves often do. But not this time.

I found out by accident. The case of the Invisible Man where once again we ended up chasing criminals through the streets of London, seriously the amount of running, it was getting ridiculous, my knees will never recover.

Anyway, as usual, your long legs and annoying ability to leap over obstacles like an unusually graceful antelope meant you always got to them first. I would turn up several minutes later, red faced, sweaty and annoyed. The criminal would be apprehended, you would have your smug face on and I would wonder why I even bothered keeping up, next time I'm just going to find a café and watch you frolic across the streets of London after murderers and suspects while I have a nice cup of tea.

Except apprehending the suspect was not always as easy as you thought. On that day when I rounded the corner the suspect was lying on the ground- that was usual- but so were you, on the concrete covered in blood. "Jesus Sherlock" I had rushed straight over, helping you into sitting position and preparing myself for bullet wounds, a knife in the stomach, a protruding bone somewhere.

"I'm fine John" you had sighed as I determinedly searched for a wound "He caught me by surprise that's all" there was annoyance in your voice, nothing frustrated you more than an unexpectedly sneaky offender who had the audacity to try and attack you. Your sleeve was soaked in red and I tore at it to find the wound.

Your face paled and you tried to sidle away, twisting your arm from my hands as you did, but it was too late, I had already seen them, the track marks, the angry red spots where you had forced a needle through the skin. You snapped to your feet, pressing a hand over the bleeding cut I had already forgotten about while I remained crouched on the concrete, mind reeling.

Before I could get a word out the whirring of sirens announced Lestrade's arrival on the scene and as officers descended upon us we were separated, the suspect cuffed in police car while a worried medic whisked you off to the back of the ambulance. For once you went willingly, a fussy medic was clearly the lesser of two evils in this situation.

That was so bloody typical, you love confrontation except when you're the subject of it and then suddenly you're escaping the situation in a way which would do Houdini proud.

So we didn't have a moment alone until Lestrade dropped us off at Baker street several hours later. You bounded up the stairs as usual and I trod heavily behind you, fuming, anger boiling inside me.

I slammed the door behind me as I entered the lounge, you were already sprawled on the couch and looked up annoyed as if the sound had disrupted you. I clenched my fists a few times and fixed you with the coldest most penetrating glare I could manage. Its impact mitigated by the fact you were now purposively avoiding my gaze by pretending to be absorbed in a magazine. I glanced at the page _'10 Steps to Creating your Organic Garden.' _Seriously? I ground my teeth together loudly.

"What the bloody hell is going on Sherlock?" I said it quietly and slowly.

There was a pause before you tossed the magazine aside and rolled your eyes "I don't know what you mean"

"The drugs Sherlock" OK I was shouting now, that wasn't quite what I had planned, but in my defence, at least my fist had yet to make contact with your face "The fucking drugs Sherlock, unless you've got another explanation for all those needle marks"

You sighed and swung your legs off the couch so you were sitting "Its not important John"

"It bloody is"

"Well it doesn't concern you"

"Oh is that right, because last time I checked we live together, last time I checked we are together"

"Maybe that's the problem"

"And what exactly does that mean"

You rubbed your hands roughly through your hair so it stuck up all over the place "It means I get high because I want to John, because I like it. "

"Thats a good enough reason is it?"

"Yes" you said simply.

"And you were just going to keep lying to me were you?"

You were standing now, your position defensive "I never lied, you didn't ask"

I laughed angrily "Well fuck Sherlock, I forgot my morning questions of 'how are you' and 'what do you want for breakfast' were also supposed to include 'how much fucking heroin have you had today'"

You shrugged and I was seriously fighting the urge to wrap my fingers around your throat.

"So thats it, thats your excuse?"

"No" your face was calm, disinterested "I don't need an excuse, I have no intention of stopping"

"Well we'll just see about that won't we"

"I mean it John" your voice was firm "I'm not giving it up, not again"

"If you think i'm going to sit around here and watch you slowly kill yourself then-"

"No" you interrupted "I don't expect you to watch John, I expect you to leave"

"And what the fuck does that mean"

"It means you have two choices: allow the situation to continue, allow the drugs, or remove yourself from the circumstances" Of course in your mind now was the excellent time for logic, why would i expect differently.

"Only two choices" I repeated in disbelief, the anger was ebbing away now, replaced by a churning feeling deep in my gut.

"Yes"

You were serious, I could hear it in your voice. And it scared me.

I would not do this, I would not sit around and watch you destroy yourself, I couldn't, I couldn't bear it. So I tried everything, I threatened to call Mycroft, to force you into rehab. I said I would tell Lestrade, stop you from getting anymore cases until you were clean. I stood there in our living room threatening to take away everything which mattered, and you just watched in silence, you face unreadable, waiting for me to finish.

Nothing I said got any response, you didn't sulk, there were no excuses, no frustration at my words, no concern that I would carry out my threats. It was as though you knew nothing I could say would make a difference, you knew that, and you were waiting for me to arrive at the same conclusion.

Maybe you thought I wouldn't leave, that faced with a choice of a drugged you or no you at all then I would fold and give in. So I decided to call your bluff, it was the last bullet in my arsenal, the last card up my sleeve.

"If you choose the drugs Sherlock then you choose to do them alone"

I looked you right in the eyes so there would be no doubt of my seriousness. You wouldn't choose drugs over me, if you wouldn't get clean for yourself then you would do it for me. Wouldn't you? Yesterday I was certain of the answer, but as we stood there suddenly I wasn't so sure.

There was a strange look in your eyes, was it pity? Pity that I had misread this so much, that i cared when it was unreciprocated, pity that I actually thought you would choose me over drugs. And then you shrugged, you actually shrugged, the nonchalant movement of your shoulders like a punch to my gut.

"Its your choice"

You said it so calmly, so casually, as if we were discussing what curtains to buy, not me leaving, not us being apart.

Then you walked past me, through the kitchen and down the hall, pausing outside the door to your room. I spun slowly on the spot and watched you. Was this actually happening, was this actually real? Then you turned to face me, your emotionless eyes searching mine for a short moment "Goodbye John" and then you pulled the door shut.

I stood there for a few seconds in shock, or was it a few hours? And then as if on autopilot I grabbed some of my things and then I was out the door. I was furious, I was surprised, but most of all I was hurt, it was as if someone had torn a hole in my chest. Nothingness washed over me like a sluggish wave and then I was alone.

I want you to know how angry I was with you that night, how disappointed, how much I wished that things had been different, that you had been different. Most of all I want you to know how much it hurt. Because I love you, without fear, without expectation, wanting nothing in return but you. And you had thrown it back in my face, and there was nothing I could do. Perhaps thats the hardest thing to admit to ones self, that theres nothing we can do. Not yet.

But still I waited for your text or your call, the words which would make all of this OK. We fought, thats what people do, they fight and then they make up. We were no different.

I might as well have promised myself I would spend my next birthday having a tea party with the Queen on the moon. Because in truth I was waiting for something that would never come. I knew you were still helping Lestrade, as if nothing in your life had changed, as if nothing was different, except that I was no longer part of it and yet somehow you hadn't even noticed, somehow it didn't matter.

I couldn't go back, I wouldn't. I was too proud to make the first move myself and so I waited because I didn't know what else to do.

Because I didn't know why. I didn't know why you had said those things, why you were back on drugs and why you let me walk out the door so easily, because I didn't know that was all part of your plan, that it was what you wanted.

Because you had kept the truth from me, the truth I would discover far too late, the truth that changed everything.

Had I known I never would have left, I promise you, I would have stayed no matter what. But that's not what happened is it? I was gone and you were alone. I wasn't there during the next weeks, I had no idea and so it was your brother who came for you.

It was Mycroft who watched over you from afar, it was him who saw what I could not. It was Mycroft who came sprinting up the stairs, who hammered on your bedroom door, who forced it open and found you slumped next to the bed, pale, barely conscious, hardly breathing, an empty syringe discarded beside you.

He called the ambulance, it was him who sat on the floor next to you, who pulled your head and shoulders into his lap and wrapped his arms around you, holding your hands tightly, your bluish fingertips cold against his skin. He felt desperately for your weak pulse, listening for your irregular breaths. It was him who muttered nonsensical words of comfort, who tried to keep you conscious. He asked you if you remembered the games you had played as children, the pirate ship you had made from the fridge box, the ship no one but you and Redbeard were allowed upon. He listened to your murmured replies, clutching you close until the ambulance arrived and carted your barely alive body to the hospital.

And it was him who was the first to discover what you had hidden from all of us.

That you were sick.

And then it all made sense. Why you had let me leave, why you were acting different, why you had turned back to drugs. Not as a distraction, not as a cure for boredom, but to hide the pain, to bury all thoughts of a future which was suddenly uncertain.

And it all made sense, to Mycroft.

Because I wasn't there, because I had left


	3. Return to Me

You know what pisses me off the most? All the stuff they never teach you, all the stuff parents and teachers always said you had to figure out yourself. Do they think its character building? Do they think there's lessons only learnt by experience? Is that why they don't help?

You know what, I don't think so, I think no one teaches us because they want us to fuck it up, I reckon secretly no one wants to help others glide through life easier than they did, it makes them feel better. Mistakes aren't as bad if everyones making them.

Because no one tells you how to love someone, how to tell what's happening in someones else's mind. They don't teach you how to decide what is right or wrong, or how to fix things that are broken. So how are we meant to do it? Do we just stumble through life trying to piece everything together as we go? It seems a pretty shit way of doing it, but heres the thing you should know- you don't have a choice.

You can tiptoe around it all or you can go barrelling straight in, but the outcomes still the same, you're gonna fuck things up and you're not gonna know how to fix them.

So there you go, someones finally taught you something worth knowing, maybe its not what you want to hear, but it's the truth.

Trust me, if anyone knows, I do.

Because while you were in the hospital, I was at the bloody supermarket, I took a walk in the park, I went to the pub with Mike. I didn't check in on you because I didn't know how to fix things and so I was gone when you needed me most.

* * *

Then a week later I ran into Lestrade. London has a population of about 8.2 million and yet here we both were in the middle of Sutton on a Sunday afternoon at exactly 3.27pm. Maybe thats fate or something, not that I believe in that sort of thing but maybe the universe was so sick of watching me blundering along and ruining things that they decided to throw me a bone.

Hay I'm not complaining.

"Greg?"

He turned around in surprise, looking far more tired than usual, I assumed he was on a big case, maybe it was too boring for you to help him with. I dunno, but he didn't look good.

"John?" he frowned at me, not in the way which said '_I didn't expect to see you here'_ but in a way which said '_Oh, its you'_

Well that was off putting "Ah… hows it going?"

Just call me the master of small talk.

"Just dropping of a few things" he waved his hand behind him, still giving me a look which I wasn't exactly appreciating. Was this a casualty of what had happened between me and you, had our friends taken sides? I knew you and Lestrade were close, closer than it seemed from the outside, he was protective over you, he always had been, but somehow I didn't think you were the type to divulge the personal details of our lives to him.

Ok the disapproving look was annoying me now and so I decided to get out "I'd better be off then" I said, ahh the handy sentence of cowardly escape.

Greg just nodded as if he didn't expect anything different.

"Right" I said quietly, well that had been the most awkward encounter of my life, I turned back down the street but before I had taken more than three steps Greg was at my side.

"Look maybe its not my place" he began uncertainly, the tone of his voice still slightly colder than usual "But I think you owe him better than this"

"Is that right?" I was pissed off now, nothing frustrates me more than people who make comments like this who don't know the full story, they come in during Act II of the play and think they know everything. But the fact is they don't and yet they still decide to stick their nose in. What is it with people and needing to be involved? Is it really that hard to go '_oh maybe thats not my business, I guess I should shut the fuck up'_

I guess people like to be able to say they tried, that they did or said something.

But I hadn't expected this, not from Greg.

"Yeah, it is actually John" He said crossing his arms "I don't give a shit what happened between you two, but at the end of the day he needs you"

"He made it perfectly clear he didn't"

"Fucking hell John, you and I both know whatever he might have said he didn't actually mean it"

"What? And that gives him free license to do whatever and get away with it does it?"

"No, but you know what he's like"

"Yeah and maybe I'm sick of it"

Greg shook his head in disbelief "And so that's it is it? You're just gonna leave him be, not visit, not try and fix things?"

Since when was Greg so concerned about us? Had you told him that we were more than just friends, or had he assumed, like everyone seemed to have been doing for years.

"I'm sure he can manage to entertain himself with a few of the cases you haven't managed to solve"

Ok that was a shot below the belt, but at this point I didn't really care, I thought about telling Greg you were back on the drugs, see what he'd say about that, about having someone who was off their face at his crime scene. But no matter how mad I was with you, I knew how important the cases were, how miserable you were without them and I didn't want that, not really.

I expected Lestrade to tell me to piss of and then leave, but he sort of just stood there with a weird look on his face, staring down at me in confusion. Shit, maybe he was a bit more touchy about you solving his cases than I realised.

"I don't think he's going to be out on any cases soon " Lestrade said slowly, as if he was testing the waters.

Now I was confused "Why not?"

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and and exhaled loudly "Fucking hell John, I knew it, I knew you wouldn't just bugger off and leave Sherlock if you knew. Fuck, I thought at the very least Mycroft would have rung."

"What the hell does that mean?" Alrighty, now I was worried.

"I'm sorry John, shit, I'm sorry, I should have rung myself, I should have thought to-"

"Greg" I interrupted loudly and he sighed.

"Get in the car and I'll explain"

His eyes were sad and suddenly he looked 20 years older.

* * *

I had wished for many things during my life and I had believed in even more. I had promised myself things which would never come to fruition, I had said things which could never be taken back, I had done things which could never be undone. I had felt both the warmth of happiness and the coldness of despair.

And yet from all of this there are still times which seem to stick out in our minds like nothing else, a prickly painful memory that sometimes we explore to see if it still hurts, if its still as raw as it once was.

And the car ride to the hospital certainly takes a place on the top five.

Despite my job, i don't actually like hospitals that much, somehow they always remind me of death.

How much time have I spent in hospitals, I'd walked through these doors a thousand times, I've watched people scream in pain, I've watched them die, I've seen families crumble and yet its different when its you. Maybe I had managed to distance myself from all of it somehow, I mean that's what we're supposed to do, its what they teach us in medical school, to care, but not to care too much. Otherwise you feel loss a thousand times, you feel grief like an endless and relentless wave pushing you under. So you separate yourself because you have to, and then you forget what its like, when the tables turn, when its someone you love in there.

I think when you love someone then you pretty much depend on getting hurt because that's what comes with people. It's never just the good, you have to take the bad as well, that's just how it goes. And your greatest fear, the great cautioning thing which holds us back from reckless love is the fear that when you truly need someone they wont be there, not really, and that's exactly what I had done to you.

I had left you alone when you needed me most and I'm sorry.

Lestrade stopped outside a room on the fifth floor and looked down at me, his light eyes deep with concern, and something else: pity.

He had explained on the way but I'm not sure how much I had heard. Its not real, this kind of thing happens to other people, not to you, not to us.

How many families had I said _'I'm sorry'_ to, how many times had I broken the news that someone's future suddenly looked a lot bleaker and shorter. But that was different, those were other people, the unlucky people and families you look at and shake your head thinking _thank god its not us_.

We were not part of their group, we weren't the people to whom bad things happened. We weren't.

Lestrade stood beside me "its going to be OK John" he said grasping my shoulder tightly in his hands. And because I was a fool, I believed him.

* * *

I stepped inside, I don't know what I expected to see, you know how you always seem to imagine the worst case scenario and then you actually get there and think maybe its not so bad. Well that didn't happen.

I think you put the people you love on a pedestal, you see a different version of them, the version you want to see, the person you know they can be, the person you've created for yourself in your mind. You had once told me that you weren't a hero, but there are different kind of heroes aren't there?

There are those from the comic books and the movies with super powers who save the world time and time again. There are the heroes splattered across the pages of history who saved their nations, stood behind a cause, rallied their people into hope or revolution.

And then there are the heroes which matter to us, the heroes which seem real. They are not separated from us by novels and documentaries and statues in their honour; they are part of us. They are the people who change us for the better. And in my mind you were this person, you always had been but now here we were and it hurt me to see you like this. In my mind you were still indestructible.

You were lying in the bed, propped up by pillows, eyes closed. Your skin was so pale it was almost translucent, deep bruise like circles la under your eyes and your lips were colourless. The dark curls stood out against the paleness of your skin and the white of the pillows and sheets.

An oxygen mask was strapped to your face, the thick elastic bands leaving red marks. I tried to ignore all the tubes attached to your hands and chest. A heart monitor beeped quietly in the background.

Mycroft sat in a large armchair next to your bed, a novel open on his lap, his faithful umbrella hooked over the chairs arm. He glanced up from his book as I cautiously entered, his dark eyes unsurprised at my arrival. He turned back to his page without saying a word.

Considering this was your brother we were talking about, it was almost a warm reception. A part of me was surprised to see him here, your relationship was never something I fully understood, although it didn't take a genius to see that despite what your interactions suggested, there is no stronger bond than that of brothers, and you both knew it.

From what I had heard in passing I knew that Mycroft had played a large role in raising you, he was protective over you in a way that I don't think you fully realised. You were his baby brother and regardless of his job and his claims that sentiment is weakness, you were his exception.

I mean he was here wasn't he, he had come when I hadn't.

Your eyes fluttered and the heart monitor beeped. Mycroft placed the book delicately on the table beside your bed and it was then I saw that his other hand was grasped tightly over yours, his long fingers wrapped around your pale and tube filled hand. "Squeeze my hand when it hurts" he said quietly while I hovered by the door, half in disbelief that I had heard such an expression of brotherly love and half because I felt like I was intruding.

Me, intruding on you and Mycroft.

It had been a weird day.

Your hand tightened weakly over his and I watched as Mycroft quickly punched a button on the panel next to you, pushing the drugs deep into your system. Then he sat back in his chair, his back straight, the usual look of superior distain on his face, exactly as usual except for his right hand which was still clasped protectively over yours.

He stared up at me as if daring me to say something but even I wasn't that stupid.

"How…Hows he doing?" I asked nervously, I still felt like an intruder, as if the past month of absence had stripped away my rights to enquire about your wellbeing, to be present at situations like this.

The feeling unnerved me and I knew Mycroft had seen right through me. He raised an eyebrow glancing purposively at you on the bed, hooked up to the machines and looking as if you were already on deaths doorstep.

"Right, stupid question" I muttered and hurried over throwing myself in the seat on the other side of your bed before Mycroft could say anything, before he could tell me to leave. I avoided his searching gaze, the look of disapproval which was burning into me from across your bed.

Yeah OK, I got it, I'm a selfish, idiotic bastard. Thanks for the reminder but its not like I'd forgotten.

Your eyes fluttered open, the bright swirl of blue and green which usually greeted me seemed to have faded. You blinked several times, your eyes glazing over slightly, it was a look I had seen a thousand time, one of pain. Before I could do anything Mycroft was already tapping the button again and for the first time I was glad for his presence.

You pulled the mask down off your face "Its good to see you"

Ohhh great, and I thought the ship of enormous guilt and regret had already set sail but I guess not, time to add some more cargo. Here you were lying all pale and sick in bed and looking happy to see me. ME! The person who had just wandered out the door a month ago, not questioning why you might ask me to leave, pretty much saying 'i_t doesn't surprise me in the slightest that you would be such a dick and not care about our relationship and choose drugs over me,'_ and then I hadn't bothered to check up on you in an entire month, even though I knew you were back on the drugs.

Yeah, I'm exactly the sort of person you should be happy to see, they'll probably give me a trophy for my dedication to relationships, maybe I should win the prize for most caring person of the year. Or maybe you could just punch me in the face and tell me that you hate me, I think that would make me feel better. Actually I'm certain it would, maybe Mycroft could do it for you, although I'm sure he could think up something far more dramatic and painful, yes that would be good.

But I didn't pour out a long story of I'm sorries, I didn't try to explain my absence, or why I had so easily and unquestionably left Baker street those weeks ago.

"Its good to see you too"

Yep, that was all I had. Don't pretend to be surprised, haven't we established already how terrible a person I am?

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked. I knew why, at least I think I did, but I needed to hear you say it, I needed to be reassured.

You frowned, turning your head so you couldn't see my face "I didn't want you to have to see…" you gestured weakly at the hospital room "…this. "

I nodded meekly even though I knew you couldn't see. You had sent me away to try and spare me pain, you hadn't mounted an excuse to my accusations, you hadn't offered an explanation to your drug use.

You had known how that conversation would end before it even started and I had just stumbled blindly into it.

You did it because you thought it would be easier for me, but I need to tell you that you were wrong. I'm not saying its easy for me to see you sick because of course its not, I hate it, I hate that this happened to you, if I could switch places with you then I would in a heartbeat. But still I would rather face anything with you, any obstacle in our paths than walk the world alone. I had done it before and I couldn't go back to it, not ever. Its claustrophobic, loneliness is a feeling which runs deeper than any other, it seems to tunnel into your soul and to be honest it scared the shit out of me.

I'm not very good at this sort of thing, I find it difficult to say. But even though you know this, even though you don't expect anything different, I want to let you know that I never wanted to hurt you, that I'm grateful or you trying to protect me, I'm grateful for everything, for you, I'm sorry for leaving, and most of all I'm sorry for what happened later.

"I'm not going anywhere" I replied, taking your other hand, it was unnaturally cold. You turned back to face me and a ghost of a smile brushed across your lips and I grinned in return, words were not our strong suit when it came to this sort of thing, both of us knew it, but then again some things didn't need to be said.

At that moment your eyes widened and you turned to Mycroft who threw his book aside and leapt to his feet, grabbing a bucket off the floor with one hand and gripping your shoulder with the other, supporting your weight as you leant over the side of the bed and vomited heavily into it. I was on my feet as well, but Mycroft had it covered and once again I felt as though my presence here was unnecessary.

Maybe it was, but fuck that I was staying, even if you didn't need me, I needed you, I needed to be here. When you were finished Mycroft fiddled around with a few of your tubes which had become displaced before untying your oxygen mask and fixing a nasal cannula on instead incase you vomited again. The effort had exhausted you, there was a thin sheen on your face which was impossibly even paler than before. I tried not to notice that most of the fluid in the bucket was blood and I glanced over at Mycroft who was watching you closely as your eyes fluttered shut again.


	4. At the Close

Here are the things I knew for sure:

You were dying

And there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it

And here are the things I didn't.

1\. Why the hell you didn't get sick like a normal person and have the flu or something

2\. Why hospitals are so fucking useless and won't do their jobs, as in SAVE people, that's what us doctors are for isn't it?

3\. …

4\. Why the fuck am I making a list

5\. Why can't you just get better

6\. Why do I feel like I'm falling apart

7\. ….

8\. How can you leave me? How can you be so cruel as to abandon me, why are you taking yourself out of my future….out of our future

I know its pointless, its stupid and pointless to wish that things are different, but I can't help it.

They couldn't fix you and neither could I.

I hated being helpless. There are some things that fall beyond our control, outside our sphere of influence and that's a hard pill to swallow. I think it's a natural instinct to try and do something, anything, but sometimes doing nothing is the only option. You leave yourself in the hands of fate, or destiny or whatever bullshit you want to call it, but its like being swept down a river, you don't know where it turns, where it leads, and yet you let it take you on its path regardless. To me, doing nothing feels like giving up: accepting that things can't be changed, and that's just not bloody good enough.

But then again, that kind of thinking is exactly what landed me here.

If I could go back to that day at the hospital, if I could do it all over again I'm honestly not sure if I would be able to do nothing, they say hindsight is 20/20 but I don't believe that.

Anyway, all it took was 15 minutes. I left to get a cuppa, I literally mean I was only out of your sight for 15 bloody minutes, but that was more than you needed wasn't it? When I came back you were gone, you were fucking gone.

I'm not even gonna bother thinking about how you managed to waltz out of the hospital without anyone stopping you or thinking that perhaps it was mildly suspicious that someone who looked as sick as you was allowed to just leave.

You know how you always go on about how stupid people are, well seriously what was the woman at reception thinking? Did she just look at you and think…

'Oh my that's a very sick looking man! And he wants to check out of the hospital without any discharge slips. Shall I ring security or maybe I should call him a cab and open the door for him and maybe wish him a nice day… yes, the second option is definitely the right one.' Seriously who the fuck hired her?

The worst part was that I knew instantly where you'd gone. I wish I didn't, but I knew you. And I knew what pain did to people.

I knew you wanted to block it out, to get rid of it in a way no hospital medication could, in the only way you had convinced yourself you could escape it.

But did you really think this was the answer? There are some things we can't escape from, no matter how hard we try. I'm sorry that's just the way things are, just because you block something out for a while, it doesn't mean its not hurting and it certainly doesn't mean its gone.

But in a way I didn't blame you. I could see your pain, I saw it in everything you did, the way you spoke, the way you laughed, every movement you took, and I understood what it cost you to hide it all from me. Pain strips everything from you until it's just the two of you; you and the pain and nothing else can exist.

And so I went after you alone.

You hadn't quite made it, your body had given up in the alleyway behind the drug den and it refused to go any further.

"Sherlock!" I ran where you were sitting slumped against the brick wall, your nose was bleeding, and breaths shallow. I punched the emergency number into my phone and shouted for an ambulance before grabbing you by the shoulders, I patted your face gently, trying to bring you back to me "Sherlock"

Your eyes fluttered open and I exhaled in relief "What the fuck are you doing out here" I asked, half pissed off, half over the moon that I had found you alive.

Instead of answering with the sarcastic response I had expected, or some comment about needing some fresh air that I would have tried not to laugh at, you simply looked at me and that's when I saw the one thing I never wanted to see, the single look in your eyes which made my whole world crumble into dust.

You had given up. Given up on fighting, on trying to survive. You had given up on life.

Everyone, at some point will lose their way. It often happens without you noticing, suddenly you look around and realize that everything you thought you knew is gone. You've lost the ability to be okay, and the loneliness is crushing, because no one can help you, not really, you have to find the way back yourself.

But you weren't searching for the lost path, it didn't matter to you, not anymore. There was no fight in your eyes, no hope, none of the burning desire for life that seems to sear through human beings like wildfire.

"Why?" I whispered. This wasn't you… you would not be beaten by anything, why would this be any different?

But one thing I've learnt is that people change, even the people you thought you knew as well as yourself.

Pain changes people.

You didn't answer, you just sat there in the cold concrete looking at the ground, shoulders slumped weakly as if you were just waiting, waiting for the ground to swallow you whole as if leaving the world behind was the easiest thing.

"You can't do this Sherlock" I said my hands tightening on your shoulders "We'll get through this."

That was a lie, I knew it the moment it escaped my lips but I didn't regret it, we need lies sometimes.

"There's no point pretending John, we both know how this ends"

"It doesn't have to be like this" I said, cringing at how childish those words sounded.

"Denial doesn't change anything" you said calmly as if we were discussing the weather over coffee "You'll be OK John, you'll move on, that's what people do isn't it?"

"How can you say that?" I spluttered in disbelief, is that what you really thought? That I would go to your funeral, maybe mope about the house for a few days and then everything would go back to normal? That I could carry on as if nothing had changed, as if your chair wasn't empty, as if your coat didn't hang on the rack gathering dust, as if my arrival home wasn't meant by echoing silence? As if your absence would be just another bump in the road of John Watsons life?

"Because its the truth"

I hated your composure, how you could talk about this sort of thing as if it were nothing. I wanted you to break down, to scream to cry, to beg, to fight, to do something which proved you wanted to live, that dying mattered to you and that leaving me mattered.

"No its fucking not Sherlock. How can you say that, you think you dying doesn't matter to me! Is that how it is for you, if I corked it later today are you just going to shrug your shoulders and carry on as usual?!"

"Of course not" you retorted sharply, somehow managing to sound indignant while on the verge on unconsciousness

"Then I don't get it Sherlock, I just don't"

"Everybody dies John"

"Not everyone lets it happen so fucking easily!"

You looked at me for moment with a searching look like you always did when I said something you weren't expecting "You think this is easy for me?" you asked quietly.

"What? You've got another explanation for what you're doing out here instead of in the hospital have you?"

"They can't do anything for me" you said simply and you were right, I hated that you were right.

"They can give you more time"

You raised your eyebrows "For what?"

"To live Sherlock, to fucking live" my hands were shaking, grasping your shirt so tightly my knuckles had turned white. I couldn't do this, I couldn't look into your eyes and see hopelessness, it wasn't right, it wasn't fair.

"This isn't living John" you said quietly and behind the hopelessness in your eyes I saw for the first time the depth of the pain. I thought I was no stranger to pain, I had felt it before, I had been shot, I had nearly died, I had returned home to a nothingness, a loneliness that threatened to consume me. There had been a time I would have given anything to make it stop, I would have prayed to God, I would have sold my soul to the devil, I would have done anything to make it end. If death was the only escape I would have taken it. That's something people don't understand, no one kills themselves because they want to die, they do it to stop the pain.

For pain is only for the living. The dead do not feel it.

And in that moment I knew that I had understood nothing of pain, nothing compared to you and my stomach twisted at the thought. If our places were exchanged would I have hope in the face of inevitability, would I fight on where there was nothing to fight for?

No.

I knew the answer at once, but my weakness was my own, it wasn't you, you were different, you were resilient, you were better than me.

"Please" was all I said and you looked up at me with tortured eyes, the barriers had fallen away and for once you showed the weakness you were always so desperate to hide.

"You don't understand John" you said in a voice which was dull. Lifeless.

"Then tell me"

"It hurts John" you cried, your fact twisting "Not just the sickness but the knowledge of what's coming, what I'll lose, what I'll never see and do. And that pain….that pain is with me all the time and every day I think that if I just, that if…..if I just let go then I can make the pain stop. It would be that easy John, and every day I fight that because I can't leave you, because I was terrified of giving up, I thought it made me weak, a coward, but I'm not scared anymore John, I just want it to end, I need it to finish." You stared up at me, there was a desperation in your eyes, begging me to see the inevitable. You hit the wall weakly, resting your head against the cold brick "I just want it to end John. I just want to die"

I rolled back on my heels so I was sitting on the cold concrete before you. I didn't know what to say, I knew you were right- weren't you always? But letting go of the person you love is the hardest thing in the world, you're not just letting go of a person, but a piece of yourself, the person you would grow into with them, the memories you would never make, the time together lost forever. You lose the person you were with them, you lose the 'we' that the two of you had once been and everything that had meant for you.

At that moment I heard sirens, the crunch of gravel beneath tires, the sound of hurried feet and then your unconscious body was lifted away from me. Warm hands grasped under my armpits and pulled me to my feet. I swayed for a moment, the warm hands steadying me.

So you had given up, you'd finally had enough of chasing life. Did that mean I had failed you? Did that mean I had to give up on you as well?

No.

No it didn't, and that was my biggest mistake, that is what I will regret all the long years of my life. We cannot play god, to decide whether someone lives or dies is not our choice to make, it is theirs and theirs alone. And when you take that choice away you have stolen from them the greatest power they have as a person, you strip them of that choice and you take away something which is not your to steal.

And I'm sorry.

I have replayed all those moments a thousand times in my mind, as we do with all memories which cause us pain.

The doctor who gave you three or four days to live, the way you nodded as if this was no surprise, the way Mycroft sat in his chair like stone.

The way I begged for another option, something, anything they could do to give you more time. And of course there was the surgery, the dangerous and painful surgery which would give you another month or two if it worked. Another month or two of unbearable agony. It was not something you considered for even a second. You had made your choice, you were ready, you had said goodbye to Mycroft and he had left. I understood why, I knew that watching you die would destroy him.

But I didn't let go of the idea of the surgery, the idea of another few weeks. I latched onto it like a drowning man and a life raft.

But then it was just you and me, the two of us alone. I didn't know what to say, how do you say goodbye?

So I did the only thing I could, I crawled onto the bed, into your arms and then I broke.

Perhaps that should have been it, perhaps here is where the story should end, the story of your life, of our time together. But it is not.

For when you fell deep into the coma from which you were supposed to never reawaken, that is when I made my choice, as your medical attorney I asked the doctors to do the surgery.

I asked them to do something that would not cure you, that could not save you, that would cause you more pain, but that would postpone the inevitable for a few short weeks.

I betrayed you and I knew the moment they wheeled you into the operating theatre that what I had done was wrong.

I would like to say that I did it because I wanted to save you, because I would not give up even if you did, but if I'm honest to myself, that's not the real reason. The truth is far more selfish. I did it because I wasn't ready to let you, because I needed more time, and even if you would be in pain, at least it would give me the chance to find a way to say goodbye.

Wouldn't it?

But I had betrayed you in the only way which mattered.

I remember Lestrade coming by while you were in the theatre. I remember him shouting 'How could you?' he was furious and he had every right to be. He knew what you had wanted, and he saw in my eyes the reason I had done it, the selfish reasons which threatened to tear me apart from the inside.

"I don't know you" Lestrade had said quietly, standing before me as I sat on the cold floor of the hospital corridor. "I don't understand the person who's doing this, who would do this to Sherlock"

I couldn't meet his eyes, and so I stared at my hands resting on my knees, moisture welling up in my eyes "You don't understand" I replied and he just looked at me, stared down at me with a gaze I could not bring myself to meet.

As I sat there on the floor hour after hour, a small part of me hoped you would die in surgery, that you would pass away as you were supposed to and never know the depth of my betrayal.

But you didn't, you survived and when you were wheeled back to your room I sat by your bed as usual, half of me wanted to run, half of me could not bear to leave your side.

And then your eyes fluttered open, with the drugs still coursing through your system and the oxygen mask snapped tightly onto your face so you couldn't speak. But you looked right at me and I saw at once that you knew, you knew what I had done and I will never forget the look in your eyes. There was pain, the agony of your sickness, waves of it flooding through your system, the pain you never thought you would have to feel again, and then there was me, the sight of my face, the person who had deliberately and knowingly subjected you to this agony for my own selfish purposes. Because I couldn't let go.

What had I done? I had opened Pandora's box, the guilt, the regret, the hopelessness, it had all been unleased as I looked into your eyes. And Pandora's box was not something which could be closed once opened, I had made my choice and forever stripped away the opportunity to revoke it.

You turned your eyes away from me, I expected to see fury, betrayal, disappointment, perhaps all of the above. I would have been prepared for those, it was what I deserved, I knew exactly what I had done. But there was nothing but a unfathomable sadness that was worse than anything else.

To be ready to die is not a choice that is ever easily made, yet you had done it, made peace with it, you had said goodbye to the world, closed your eyes expecting the pain to end and peace to take you. And instead you were back.

I couldn't take it, I couldn't see this, the evidence of what I had done. I had to leave, I had to get out of there.

I burst through the doors of the hospital, somehow I couldn't breathe in there anymore, I had to get out, I had to get away. I stood at the door, taking great shuddering breaths, trying to steady myself, trying to ignore the burning, bubbling, heavy weight of guilt in my stomach, I felt like I was drowning in it. So I set off down the street, alone, hurrying, half running. To where? I didn't know and I didn't care, but I was running away from everything I had done, sometimes you don't have a choice, sometime it seems like the only way. I won't pretend its courageous or honourable, in fact it is the exact opposite, but if you're running, then I can tell you that you don't give a flying fuck what other people think.

I needed to be on the streets of London alone, without companions without conversations, I needed to ponder the depth of my despair.

But here's the thing, no matter how far you go, no matter how you try and do it, there are some things you cannot escape. You might leave the place and the people but the guilt, the regret, they will follow you to the ends of the earth.

So I left and I did not return, I wallowed in a depth of despair I have never before felt, maybe I hoped someone would come for me, that someone would save me from the knowledge of what I had done. But the truth is no one can save you, not really. Not from yourself.

I had forced you on this path so I had the luxury of time, so I could say goodbye and yet I could not bear to face you carrying the knowledge of what I had done. It was a cruel irony that I so greatly deserved.

So I did not return to the hospital. Instead I waited for the news of your death, for a phonecall, a message, a newspaper article that would tell me it was all over. I waited for those weeks to end and then it would finally be over, you would get the ending you should have had before I intervened.

But that phonecall never came.

Because somehow, impossibly, miraculously, you had survived. Somehow in those weeks the fatal and untreatable disease had receded, you had responded to treatment. You were better, you would be OK.

And you had done it alone. After everything we had been through together, after everything we meant to each other, that's what I left behind, and nothing, nothing will make that better.

Part of me wants to think I did the right thing, I saved your life…in a way. But that's not why I did it, I didn't know that for some reason miracles or whatever divine bullshit you want to call it, were about to start falling from the sky, I did it for me. Because I'm selfish, because in that moment I cared more about how all of this effected me than about you. I can try and sugar coat it, I can try and justify it, but I'm sick of lying to myself. I made a promise, the one thing you asked of me, the one thing you wanted, needed, and yet instead I did the exact opposite.

Was it the right choice? Do the means justify the ends even if you didn't know what the ends would be? Can we draw a line in the sand and say anything on this side is justified? Sometimes I wish we could, but then again somehow I don't think I'd end up on the right side, I think I'd end up in the dark. And when you choose wrong, what are we supposed to do? Do you beg for a second chance, do you try and take it back? Of course not, I mean you can try, don't get me wrong, but you'll soon realise that no ones listening, except perhaps God but I'm pretty sure he's just laughing at what a fuck up you are. And who can blame him.

But its not gods forgiveness I need, its yours. And that's why I'm here, why 5 months after your release from hospital I'm standing outside 221B Baker Street, why I've been standing here in the dark for 2 hours. Unable to knock, unable to face you.

I cannot do it. I cannot bear it. I cannot go back to what I was here. I am not strong enough, I am not good enough.

I'm sorry.

Jesus Sherlock, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry for everything.

Its pointless isn't it?... you could never forgive me, I could never forgive myself. But I need to hear you say it and that's why I'm here, to hear you say it and then I plan to leave, to go far away where we will never cross paths again.

I fidgeted around with my old key, it was now or never. I threw the door open and strode up the steps before I changed my mind, I didn't bother knocking, any pause, any moment of inaction would be enough to break my courage so I just burst into the living room like a crazed man, my heart pounding to loudly in my hears it was like being in some kind of trance, perhaps this was all a dream, perhaps it wasn't real. You were standing at the window a silent violin clutched in your pale hand. You didn't stir at the sound nor did you make any recognition of the fact that some unknown person had burst into your living room.

You laid the violin slowly and gently back on its stand and turned to face me. I was frozen in place. Looking at your face was like seeing the light for the very first time and suddenly I thought that everything might be OK. Some people are so connected, their paths and lives so intertwined that even great distance, time or tragedy simply cannot tear them apart. Somehow they will always find their way back to one another, their way back home. And that's where I was, home, 221B Baker Street that was my home, being with you was all that mattered and in that instant I knew that I would do anything to make things right, that I would spend the rest of my life making up for my betrayal. I was nothing without you, the light and warmth of life which flares within all of us was cold and still without you. I needed you like I needed oxygen. And I was tired, tired of drowning in the endless ocean of pain and regret, I needed a life rope and here you were.

There was no anger or pain in your eyes and that simple fact brought spread warmth through from my fingertip to my toes. The icy grip that had been dragging me under loosened its hold and a flicker of hope surged within me.

I staggered forward and then that's when it happened. You held up a hand stopping me in your tracks.

"Leave"

That was all you said, and that was enough.

I had expected you to be mad, for betrayal to be etched upon every inch of your face. That was what I had expected.

And of course there was that tiny part of me that hoped silently that in the moment when we saw each other again that old wounds would be set aside, that our deep connection, our underlying need for one another would bubble over and perhaps there would be hope after all.

But the reality was neither.

There was just nothing, I meant nothing to you, the sight of me sparked no emotion whatsoever. The single word escaping from your lips was not cold, angry, sad. It was just indifferent, as if you could not care less. It had to be an act, this was what you did, you were the best in the world at hiding your true emtions- I knew that. But it hit me like a stone fist to the stomach.

This was no act, somehow, impossibly, I was to you, but another stranger on the street. And there are no words in all of the languages in all of the universe that can scrape the surface of what that meant to me.

I could handle you hating me, the pain of it, rhe regret surged through me every day and it kept me going, somehow those felings tied us together still.

But now there was nothing.

And I had been beaten in all ways. There was nothing left, the numbness of that thought swpet over me like a sluggish wave and for that I was grateful. Within the nothingness pain, hope, regret, life, none of it existed.

Like a puppet on strings I left the house. I didn't see you return to your violin, you didn't listen for my footsteps on the stairs to see if I would return, you didn't watch me leave onto the street because it did not matter to you.

And this was the end.

My feet had taken me somewhere, I didn't know where, and it didn't matter, nothing did.

I couldn't feel the coldness of the gun in my hand, the weight of its metal. I didn't hear the shout of a young man further down the bridge as he saw what I was doing. I didn't feel the barrel of the gun between my lips, nor my finger on the trigger. There was no blinding flash of light, no bang from the gun, no scenes of life flashing before my eyes, no last minute desire for life. There was simply nothing, the gun fell from my hand and clattered to the bridge and eyes closed I fell, I would never feel the cold embrace of the water, hear the scream of the young man behind me as he came too late.

It was over.

Perhaps happy endings do not exist outside the realm of fairy tales, perhaps there is no going back to how things were, no returning to better times. Everything ends, perhaps that is simply the way things are meant to be. Sometimes we lose and when we do, what is lost will never be returned. Forever it is gone. We're left with only our scars to mark the void. All we can choose to do is to go on or not. And this is no heroic tale of courage or righteousness, I had learnt no great lesson to carry me forward, I would impart no great words of wisdom or experience on others, there was no further purpose which would be served. Because for some of us, this is it, this is all we have, the charade of life, and when that becomes too much, when the charade comes to an end, the curtain falls and we are alone. The mask hiding our true self falls away. For some this is too much and for some this is just how things end.

It is a tragedy and it is life.


End file.
